


blessed are the hearts that can bend

by catsmock



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post Season 7, i also refuse to call jon aegon because that's fake news, jon coming to terms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 06:51:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12053598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catsmock/pseuds/catsmock
Summary: He wills himself to stay calm, tears would do little to help him now, he would not cower like a child. He takes in breath, hoping to find the courage to continue but something falters. The voices get too loud, the air feels heavy on his shoulders and breath comes quick and cold. His eyes fall on Yohn Royce, bushy brows raised in contented surprise, and he sees Thorne. How familiar it all seems now, he wonders if behind his back a wooden steeple branded traitor beckons him home.





	blessed are the hearts that can bend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unchienne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unchienne/gifts).



The words barely make it through his lips before the Hall explodes in protest. The bannermen of the North leap from their seats, voices overlapping into a mess of words and threats. He wills himself to stay calm, tears would do little to help him now, he would not cower like a child. He takes in breath, hoping to find the courage to continue but something falters. The voices get too loud, the air feels heavy on his shoulders and breath comes quick and cold. His eyes fall on Yohn Royce, bushy brows raised in contented surprise, and he sees Thorne. How familiar it all seems now, he wonders if behind his back a wooden steeple branded  _traitor_ beckons him home.

“Ned Stark was protecting me — his blood. His sister’s son,” _Rhaegar Targaryen’s son_. “I did not deserve to be your King, I do not deserve to be your Warden — that right belongs to Ned Stark’s true eldest born son, and he has passed that right onto his sister, Sansa.”

 

** i. **

He’s halfway to his chambers by the time he hears someone behind him, boots clicking quickly against paved stone. He considers walking faster, considers swinging around and baring his blade — “ _Jon_.” Her voice is quiet and pleading behind him. He halts, allowing her to catch up. She moves around him, pale skin blushed from chasing after him, breath escaping her in clouds, disrupting the loose auburn hair escaping her braid. 

“You walk fast for a man with such small legs,” Sansa breathes. It’s meant to make him laugh he’s sure, but it doesn’t.

“You didn’t have to tell them anything Jon, what we learned in that room could have stayed there.” Her voice comes out in a whisper. 

“I couldn’t lie to them.” 

His skin is still prickling, throat taut at the threat of a sob. The lie had been eating away at him, he did not deserve to be Lord of Winterfell - he wasn’t Ned’s trueborn son, he wasn’t his son to begin with.

“I meant what I said that day, you know. You _are_ a Stark, Jon.” She grabs his arm, gloved hand smoothing over his forearm. “You are still my brother.” 

He used to see Lady Stark in her. Her pitched high cheekbones, the swimming blue of her eyes — the hate used to linger there too, but no longer. She is a woman grown now, a Lady in her own right. He remembered how she’d call him half brother to his face but whispered to Jeyne things she’d heard her mother say. How she’d tortured Arya for spending so much time with him. How she’d ignored him as a child, how much it hurt him.

When she ran to embrace him in Castle Black though, it had been forgotten. _We were children_ , he’d said. He’d meant it.

“You weren’t so undeserving.” She says, sharp.

“I’m not Ned’s eldest heir, it would be wrong of me to hold the title knowing that.”

“You are my father’s eldest heir. He raised you.” Her grip tightens, “You are his son.”

He sees the impatience in her eyes, the anger there, but he’s too tired to fight her. He wants to sleep. Wants to lock himself in his quarters and forget about birth rights and titles. He nods, pulling unsuccessfully away from her grip.

“Don’t forget who you are, Jon.”

 

** ii. **

He’d hoped to find answers in the godswood. His gods were the old ones, but since his death the concept of faith eluded him. _He had seen nothing_. He missed the practice of prayer though, missed speaking freely to the earth. He had nothing to ask for, but he hoped that praying would alleviate the pain between his brows — would free up his mind from all of the thoughts tangled there. Ghost walks with him, head jerking at the soft song of the snow shrikes overhead, hidden only by the dense canopy of trees. _They can only be seen when the land is blanketed in snow_ his father had told him.

 _No_  —

All his life he’d wanted to know of his mother. Ned had promised him when he returned they would speak of her, but the words died with him. He wishes they’d have stayed dead.

He was still a Stark, it shouldn’t have mattered that Ned was not his father, his family was still his family. Arya, Sansa, Bran, Robb, Rickon were all his kin and his kin still. All this true and yet he couldn’t help the heat that bristled under his skin, couldn’t help the shame that clung to his frame when he thought of it. He’d felt like a shadow in Winterfell when he was a boy; now, a man grown, he couldn’t escape the eyes.

The northerners whispered in his passings, a mummer King. How could they have been so blind to award the crown to a dragon in wolf’s clothing?

Words he’d spoken to Theon echoed in his mind’s eye, _you don’t have to choose_ , he’d said, _you can be both_. But he knew nothing of fire and blood. How could he be what he did not know? He was born of the north’s cold, christened in the heated springs. He had learned of the history of Robb’s elders. Swelled with pride in stories of Brandon the Builder. Of Torrhen, the King Who Knelt. He’d spent hours in the crypts, hoping that Lady Stark would one day let him be laid to rest there, with his family, when it was his time.

Perhaps if they had all known, Lady Stark could have learned to love him, perhaps he wouldn’t have felt the shame of being Ned Stark’s only disgrace.

Perhaps if they all had known he wouldn’t have grown up in Winterfell. Perhaps Robert Baratheon would have had his head.

Perhaps.

Ghost runs past him, bounding past a thicket of ash trees. He almost calls out to him, but thinks better of it, _let him hunt_. He continues forth, boots dragging through the dense blanket of freshly fallen snow. The heart tree stood bleak in the grove; it’s pale smooth bark glistening in the wake of snow.

He’s surprised to see Bran there, sitting beneath the tree.

He had been so relieved to see him when they’d arrived to Winterfell, but Bran, such a sweet and thoughtful boy from his memory, had seemed cold. An apathetic gloved hand came to pat Jon on the back in the semblance of an embrace. He looked as he’d remembered, his auburn hair trimmed only slightly shorter than when Jon had last seen him, face still round with youth — but there was no joy in his eyes, none of what he knew. Ghost nuzzles against his leg, blood staining his snout, pushing him closer to the tree, to Bran. Jon rounds the chair slowly, unsure if Bran is aware of his presence. The deep blue eyes of House Tully are what he expects, but the bare exposure he sees instead startle him; his eyes white, foggy, unseeing.

But he _is_ seeing.

Bran had called himself the winged wolf, but Jon was unsure of what it meant. He was unsure of many things that night. _Visions_ , he’d spat, _I’m in no mood for games_. The eerie silence that followed had proved to him that no games were being played. Sam had proof, Bran had seen it, and Jon was lost.

“Have you come to pray?” Bran’s deep blues return to him at once.

“Aye, I have.”

He quiets then, makes no further attempt to speak. The Bran that would listen isn’t here now, he decides.

** iii. **

He’s dragged from his dreams from a sharp rap on his door, sweat collecting on his forehead from running miles in his sleep. He gathers himself quick enough, stumbling from his bed in search of a tunic to shield him from the cold. He half expects Ser Davos, who had ushered his reluctant body out of bed every day, forcing milk and bread down his throat before pushing him out into the cold biting air of the morning. _I know you’re sad son, but you still have a duty._

But it’s not Ser Davos to greet him this morning, it’s Arya.

She smiles at him, gray eyes squinting to crescents. She was said to resemble his mother — long faced and gray eyed, strong willed and wild — but he had nothing but an old statue to compare her to.

“I figured you would have left your room at least once in the past days.” She says dryly, whisking past him to pull open the heavy woolen curtains.

“I have left my room.”

Blue light spills from the window, wineskins and furs, gambets and weapons, all without place litter his room. He wonders idly what _he_ looked like. She makes no comment on the state of his quarters, only pursing her lips into a thin line for a moment before turning her attention to him again.

“I’m traveling south,” The words are hard when they hit him. “I know you won’t let me fight for the North, I have no need to ask. But I will not stay hidden away in some castle, that’s not me.”

“Arya, you’ve just returned.” His voice sounds almost foreign to him, gravely with disuse. “You can not expect me to sit here and watch you leave.”

“I expect you to do what you have been doing the last couple of days.” She straightens, clasping her hands behind her back. “Nothing.”

She’s quiet for a moment, challenging him to disagree with her, chuckling when he drops to his bed in defeat. She plucks a cup from its spot atop the hearth, swirling its contents before tentatively raising it to her lips.

“If winter is coming like our house words claim, and the long night threatens to take us all — I’d like to have some business finished first. 

“Business.” Jon parrots. 

Arya answers with an upturned brow, a glimmer of a smirk gracing her features. _Don’t ask what you don’t want to know,_ her eyes say. She settles next to him, passing the cup into his hands. He feels unsettlingly like a child then — being catered to, cared for. 

“Do you remember the last time we said goodbye?” She hums, smiling to herself at the memory. She does not turn to him to see his answer, she must know that he’d never forget. “You were going north, and I, south.”

She turns to him then, knee pressing slightly into his thigh. He can’t bring himself to look at her, favoring the dim ripple of the water in the cup between his hands to her chagrin.

“You gave me a gift. Needle. I saw your smile in her, Winterfell in her.” She clutches his hand, daring him to see her. “You got me through a lot.”

“I love you, Jon. Sansa does too, she lost her wolf long ago but she’s coming to terms with what it means to have a pack again. She loves you but she doesn’t know how to say it. And Bran, he will go back to the boy he was when he’s sorted out who he is.” She rests her head on his shoulder, fingers picking at the loose threads on the sleeve of his tunic. “And when the long night ends, we will bind our pasts in books where history belongs. We will be as happy as we can be because we deserve it. There will be no more tragedy for House Stark.”

They sit in silence for a long time, and Jon feels more at peace than he believes he’s ever been. The loud bang at the door shocks them both. “Time to get up, Lad — oh,” Ser Davos almost looks sheepish at his intrusion, “My apologies.”Arya begins to laugh, a loud rumbling thing that Jon has no choice to join in on. She presses a kiss to his forehead, lips chapped and dry from the cold, but it leaves him warm. She musses up his hair, laughing at the sigh of annoyance that leaves his mouth. She nudges Davos playfully on her way out.

“It was no intrusion at all, I was simply telling my brother some truths he needed to hear."

 

** iv. **

Wintertown had become congested. The Umbers and Karstarks had moved further south to escape the threat. Thousands of people had arrived unannounced at the gates, carting horses and hounds the castle had no room for, grains and leathers the lords had accepted reluctantly. They turned those who’d paid patronage to crumbling hostels and abandoned rooms, they could not do much for the others. There was no space for everyone.

They’d burned a hundred bodies before half a fortnight.

The cold had become unbearable, blistering almost. More and more had people come to the maester with blackened fingers and empty bellies, begging for help he could not give them. The Unsullied had offered their help to the common folk, gave up their rations to feed children, spent their nights tending fires in Wintertown. _We know no sacrifice_ , Greyworm confessed to him, _we have seen worse suffering_. And still, Jon felt saddened, eager to be done with it all.

He could go nowhere to escape the cold, the bitter snap of the wind held him captive in his quarters most days, leaving only to join Sam in the Hall or attend council meetings in the Keep. The halls of Winterfell were warm enough, the Keep was likely the balmiest, built over a hot spring to keep it warm, but even more so now with men huddled together.

“Some of the northern soldiers should stay here at Winterfell, hold the castle in case we have to turn back.” Ser Jaime says, voice hushed.

They’d been startled upon his arrival, riding hard through the gates in dim colors, mumbling apologies and regrets, noticeably missing his golden armor and white cape.

“And why the Northerners?” Glover yelps.

“It is your home,” Tyrion soothes, “It’s not like many of you will do well to defend us further North, anyway.”

“We can fight!”

“Yes, you can. But as well as the Unsullied? As well as the Dothraki?” Tyrion replied smoothly, reaching across the table to sweep his goblet off the table. “Leave the necessary fighting to the fighters.”

Robbett guffawed then, clearly at a loss, skin reddening at the insult.

“Those who cannot fight will be moved South, to the Twins.” Mormont follows, his fingers tracing the line along the Kingsroad.

Jon remembered his introduction to Jorah — he hadn’t liked him upon first meeting, he’d thought only of his father, of the shame he’d brought on his family - but he was imposing. Large and burly, dark hair swathing his arms and neck, the face of a demon burned into his face. And yet somehow he’d seemed small knelt in front of her. And again in front of Lady Mormont only days ago.

“I have no problem with that, as long as I’m in the front of the precession.” Tyrion sighs.

Soft laughter suffused the hall, the mumble of plans continuing — it is all lost on Jon, suddenly aware of how close to the end they all are. He sits back in his chair, taking a moment to pass his eyes over his company - northern lords in dark colors and worn faces, rugged and stern. The Dothraki, warm in both color and presence, lively and smooth. Qhono had insisted upon attending, though he spoke none of the common tongue. Missandei sat behind him, reciting every word quietly into his ear. His eyes squinted when a jest was thrown, brow furrowed when they spoke of possible failure and contingencies.  _Kisha tikh iffi_ , he'd insisted,  _fin kisha think ki loss, kisha tikh assilat._

“How prophetic.” Tyrion had laughed.

The conversation droned on; attacks spat out across the table, tentative words exchanged on and on until they were done, leaving the room in clustered bursts.

Jon had fought wars before, he’d spent his life fighting wars. The smell of death never quite forgotten before it was introduced to him again. He wanted so badly to forget it, escape somewhere with Arya tucked under his arm. How simple it could all be somewhere else. He hadn’t thought of having children — his vows would not allow them — but he had since forsaken his vows. If he had left before, perhaps he would be bouncing a babe on his knee, cheeks round and soft, hair fair — silver even. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining what the weather felt like in Pentos. He would have no need for furs, it would be too warm for leathers — he could spend his days in cotton and linen — he could watch silks caress bare skin.  He’d feast on fresh trout and baked apples, get drunk on summerwines. He could spar with Arya during the day, she’d teach him things she’d learned in her days on the run and he’d tell her stories about the wild north. Every night he could go to sleep, naked as his name day (he’s sure the air would be far too damp for anything else), to the sounds of the ocean and busy ports, the body of a lover tucked into his side. He could think of only one he’d prefer.

A gentle chiming rouses him from his reverie. Tyrion is still in the room, watching him.

“Dream of something nice, my Lord Snow?” He baits.

“Only if you consider this war nice.”

Tyrion hummed then, his rings clinking prettily against his silver crested chalice. He jerks forward after a moment of hesitation, the candlelight better pronouncing the deep grooves in his skin. _We’ve all got scars, yours just happen to compliment that pretty face of yours,_ he’d told him, drunk on wine and the crisp air of The Bite. For as long as Jon had known this man he was unsure of him. His companionship was welcomed, but his truths were always laced in jokes and anecdotes. Only an anguished man would attempt to make his tragedies humor others.

Tyrion’s fingers traced patterns into the worn parchment of the map in front of him, knocking over the direwolf, the bear, the giant, stopping at the dragon.

“Maybe it’s better this way.” Tyrion says finally, quiet. His stubby fingers coming around the neck of the poorly carved pawn.

“I’m sure we’re capable enough to come up with —”

“Not the bleeding war.”

Jon stops then, considering, and then understanding. The twinkling in the dwarf’s mismatched eyes is unmistakable. Jon sobers, wringing his hands in his lap.

“I took you to be a smart boy when I first met you, and now I am not ashamed to say you’ve grown into an honorable man,” Tyrion pauses, takes in breath as if to say something else but finishes lamely “Maybe it’s better this way.”

“Maybe.” He barely looks up to watch the twisted man slide out of his chair.

“You don’t want the throne, you want to save the world. She should certainly be part of that world — but she could die. You could die. Today, tomorrow, within the fortnight - and what would become of us then?”

Jon watches the small body approach him in his periphery, Tyrion’s bejeweled hand coming to rest on Jon’s chest. Only then does Jon lift his eyes from the table, raising to where the small hand pressed over boiled leather.

“You have a good heart, Snow. Love would fill it almost entirely don’t you think?”

 

** v. **

The Hall is loud and choked with the smell of meat and freshly baked bread. Men gathered shoulder to shoulder, acutely aware that these nights would likely be the last they’d have to enjoy before the war. Jon sits alone, as he had since he’d denounced himself in the Keep. The lords had barely paid him any attention, and he was grateful for it, sitting low and in the cluster as he had when he was a boy.

The great stone walls kept no banners - there hadn’t been time to adorn them with the crimson three-headed dragon, somehow he doubted anyone would have attempted to hang them if there had been time. He remembers how they’d stared at her the day the gates raised. Hard and callous as she’d expected, as she’d worried. _“The North remembers, is right.”_ Tyrion had jested, but it had done little to lighten the mood.

Sam saddled the bench beside him, plates of honeyed ham, pigeon pie, and blackened bread gripped tightly in his fingers.

“I didn’t know what you wanted,” he says nervously, pale eyes scouring the men surrounding them, “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather sit with your family, Lord Snow?”

“Lord Snow?” he chuckles softly, cracking open the pie with the rounded end of his spoon, “I’m sure. I don’t so loathe your company, Sam.”

Sam smiles, his moon face suddenly rounder. They feasted in silence for a while, a thick heady silence he knows Sam desperately yearned to break. Jon couldn’t help but think of his evenings in the dim common hall of Castle Black. The sound of camaraderie would echo, brothers of the watch feasting on plain meals but telling stories of greater ones. He missed Pyp and his thousand voices, Grenn and his candor. He misses his true brothers. Sam is the only one left. He wonders if Edd is still alive.

“How’re you faring?”

Sam met his eyes from over his mug, his eyes considering. “I’m fine, it’s much nicer here than in Oldtown — Gilly and little Sam much prefer the company.”

“And what of you?” Jon pushes.

Sam frowns, clutching his fork in an unsteady hand.

“I’m sick with worry, Jon. I can’t think of anything other than the Others or what will happen after all of this is done. Will we win this war? If we don’t where will I go? I promised Gilly that I would keep our son safe —”

“You will.”

Sam sighs, laying his fork down, decidedly done eating. Jon knows he is unhappy with the response but he can not tell him anything else. He is clutched too. His dreams are plagued with blue eyes and exposed bones, the collapsed wall —  _he hadn’t heard from Tormund_. He’d hoped the taste of mead and the low murmur of drunken conversation would distract him from his thoughts; he supposed he probably should have chosen better company if he had hoped to escape nervousness.

“The first thing I did when I settled here was visit the library,” Sam began, mildly aware of the dampening mood. “I thought perhaps after all my work in Oldtown I would be right tired of reading but, I wandered to the tower anyway.”

Jon smiles to himself at the gesture.

“The books there are in amazing condition — I guess the northern lords haven’t an affinity for reading.”

“I guess not.” Jon chortles. 

“I spent my first couple of nights there before you came.” Sam tore the blackened shell of his roll, shoving a portly finger into his mouth. “I read little Sam stories about the lords here, felt it was only fitting.” He says around a mouth of bread.

“Did he enjoy them?” Jon teases, laughing at the exasperated face Sam returned to him.

“I’m right tired of talking to people who don’t care about what I’m saying,” he yips, “He’s far more interested in what the pages taste like than what’s on them.”

“He’s a babe, Sam.”

“I know,” Sam starts. “Luckily enough for me, the Queen came and joined me last night. She’s smart, knows a lot about the world —”

 “Sam,” Jon warns.

“— she told me plenty of her life in Essos. She hasn’t had it easy you know.” 

Jon drops his spoon onto his plate in indignation, the resounding clunk making Sam jump a little. He could go nowhere to escape her it seemed.

“I was surprised you hadn’t told her about Maester Aemon. She was surprised that her kin had survived —” Sam trails off at the implication of his words. _Her kin survived yet_.

Sam barely meets his eyes then, emptying the cup in front of him. He hadn’t told Sam of the nature of his relationship with Daenerys, but his time spent at her side had surely told him enough. Their relation didn’t unsettle him as much as the lies had. His father now his uncle. He suddenly had no sisters, no brothers, no _true_ ones. He knew not of Aegon or Rhaenys, they were names he could place no faces to. He’d felt sick over Elia, ashamed that his father had disposed of her. His father. Her brother. He wished he’d never known. And she’d likely wished the same thing. She distanced herself, no doubt upset over the politics of it all.

He hadn’t seen her since that night, not in the way he _wanted_ to see her.   

Her name was left unspoken amongst his advisors but he knew enough to remain stoic when she was mentioned in passing. Knew enough not to run after shadows when he saw a glimmer of silver floating in the castle halls. Knew to keep his eyes cold and unfeeling when she addressed every one but him at council meetings. He didn’t want to speak of her now. He wanted to have a pleasant conversation over a warm meal with an old friend and go to bed tired and full.

“She’s a lovely woman. Kind.”

“Sam!” The shout quiets the hall, but only for a moment. The noise around them peaking after interested eyes sought different company.

“I think she thinks you hate her,” Sam says quietly after a moment, “You don’t hate her, do you?”

 

** fin.**

The yellow filtered light of the library blinds him when he first hoists the door open. He can hear their hushed voices quiet at the obnoxious cry that follows his entrance. The room is warm, both in glow and feeling - a fire blazing brilliantly in its hearth. Bookshelves frame the room, tall yet hardly touching the vaulted stone ceiling. His steps are quiet, cushioned by the pelted floor.

They’re in the center of the room, furs tucked under them on the floor. Sam looks warily at him, clearly confused at his sudden appearance. She doesn’t look at him at all. The room remains silent, the only noise is of little Sam, quietly babbling in an attempt to draw Jon’s attention, small hands reaching out to clutch the leg of his breeches.

“I’d like to speak to Daenerys.”

Jon waits, watches as Sam clumsily lifts himself from the floor. “I guess I’m done for the night.” He offers, bowing his head to her before tucking the books he’d been reading into shelves around the room. He returns to swoop little Sam into his arms, quiet feet shuffling past Jon as he retreats from the room, the door clanging noisily behind him. Jon lowers his eyes to look at her. She’s sitting in the nest of furs she and Sam had created in front of the fire, the pale hair normally bound in braids hangs loose and flowing down her back, her small frame buried under a heavy woolen doublet and a cloak that is not hers. Her violet eyes stay trained on the page in front of her, never once lifting to meet his.

“Daenerys.” He says, and for once it feels strange on his tongue.

“Hmm.” It’s the first thing she’s said to him in a fortnight, not nearly a word but he closes his eyes involuntarily anyway, lulled by her voice.

He waits for her to look at him, but she stays fixed on her book, her teeth nipping at her bottom lip.

“You weren’t at the council meeting.”

“No, I was not.” She sighs, flipping her page in the following silence.

“We’re taking our league North in the morning, the Northern army will stay here and hold Winterfell —” He pauses, unsure of how to continue.

“Tyrion told me all of this,” She says gently, her eyes finally resting on his. “If that’s all, you may leave.”

He sighs, kneeling into the furs in front of her. Her eyes widen, and she looks almost confused when he settles there, flinching away from the touch of his knee against her.

“You’ll go south, with Tyrion —”

“I will not,” She interrupts, voice cracking sharply.

“He agrees that —”

“I don’t care what he thinks,” She closes her book, the sound loud and echoing in the room. “I don’t care what _you_ think. The dragons follow me and me only. I will fly north, I will fight for my country like the rest of you.”

“You’d be risking your life.”

“Yes, I would.”

He holds her gaze until he can’t anymore, nodding when he can no longer find the words to assuage her. He knew she’d respond like this, Tyrion had told him, but he thought he might try anyway. To truly speak to her. Her stubbornness had once made him smile, it still did, but he couldn’t shake the image of her pale and lifeless in the snow.

“What are you reading?”

She looks at him, a smile playing slightly on her lips at his interest. “The Loves of Queen Nymeria.”

“My sister loves that story.” He holds his hand out to her, dragging his fingers over the worn leather of the book when she gives it to him.

“She should be proud, soon they’ll be writing stories about you too.” He closes his eyes at the quiet accusation in her voice.

The air hangs heavy, her eyes glassy and dark. The quiet crackle of the fire and deep breaths escaping her parted lips the only sound reaching his ears.

“I don’t want the throne.”

“It doesn’t matter,” He doesn’t miss the tear that slips from her eye, a sleek trail left in its wake as it collected in the corner of her mouth. Her hands are balled tight in her lap, knuckles white and splotchy from the pressure. She draws breath, a long shuddering one before continuing. “Better a trueborn Northern lord than a foreign whore.”

“Dany.”

Her brows crease in question, stare unwavering. _Say something._  It’s what she would say he knows, but he can’t bring himself to say anything else. She huffs, stacking the books around her into piles of varying size. He watches as she lifts tentatively, a stack tucked forcefully under her chin, listens as she disappears behind him, the soft shift of a journal finding its place amongst others. His eyes follow when she returns, follow when she leaves to do it again. She returns for the last time, hand outstretched for the book in his hands.

He offers it to her, his grip tightening when she attempts to pluck it from him. “I missed you.”

“Missed me?” She scoffs, tugging the volume from his grasp. The look she gives him is pained, not sorrowful but scorned. “I would’ve understood if you wanted space, if you no longer wanted to be with me. I just wanted you to talk to me. I wanted to hear it from your mouth.”

He swallows thickly in the following silence. “I didn’t know how.”

“You didn’t know how.” She repeats.

“I was afraid.”

“Afraid?” Her voice grows soft. “What were you afraid of?”

He battles himself for a moment, was he afraid, were those the right words to use? He’d felt confused and dejected, so many things at once, but fear? Could that have been it? Of all the nights he’d spent in her bed, of all the secrets shared between them in the dark of night, was he afraid to tell her what he felt?

“I don’t know.” He admits.

She considers him for a moment, eyes searching his for a better answer. She raises her hand from her lap tentatively, fingers grazing the scar under his eye, the scruff of his beard, the cleft of his chin, the seam of his lips. She pushes forward slightly on her heels, her face now inches from his, but she goes no further. She gives him time to reject her, time to push her away in disgust or horror. She seems almost surprised when he responds in kind, his lips pressing softly against hers. He nuzzles against her nose, his hands finding their way to her back. He coerces her body closer so that he can wrap himself around her. " _I didn't think anyone could be afraid of themselves._ " He laughs softly, pulling his fingers through the silver locks of her hair before considering her words.

“I’m not afraid anymore, I know who I am. Who I’ve always been.”

**Author's Note:**

> Excuse the fact that I stick to book accurate character descriptions, I honestly can't believe they didn't cast Bran as a redhead but - whatever. I hope you enjoyed. I had a little bit of trouble characterizing Arya, and a little more trouble characterizing Bran lol. I was completely done by the time I thought of adding a Davos chapter (but my own personal headcanon is Davos would be leaving as well, he's no fighter like he said and he has a family back at Cape Wrath waiting for him).  
> Translation: Kisha tikh iffi. Fin kisha think ki loss, kisha tikh assilat. ➝ We will win. If we think of loss, we will lose.
> 
> This is unbeta'd so excuse the mistakes. Come visit me on Tumblr @aryasharp.


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